


Over My Dead Body

by Felixbug



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Gen, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-12 10:54:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4476656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Felixbug/pseuds/Felixbug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Over his dead body, he’d said, and Hawke’s never been the type to break a promise. But Bethany’s on the verge of tears and it’s not for herself – it’s for him. She’s cooperating to save his life – the quick to action brother who always went one step too far defending her from bullies, who had to be begged time and time again to run, not fight the Templars who drove them from their home again. She knows he won’t walk out of this one with a new scar and a story to tell his friends – he won’t walk out at all. <br/>He doesn’t care. His blood runs hot and his vision’s red. He doesn’t care at all.</i>
</p><p>Breaking the Silence prequel - a prompt on Tumblr asked for how Hawke reacted to Bethany being taken to the Circle. Short answer: badly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Over My Dead Body

**Author's Note:**

> Hint of mHanders, but I didn't tag the pairing because it's honestly a single line :p This Hawke is purple I swear to the Maker, he's just having a very red day.

_He left her here to save her – remembers every moment in the Deep Roads, every second they’d been under attack and he’d known it was the right choice. He thinks of the ogre that killed Carver, he thinks of his mother’s fury – the hate she tried to deny – the silence on the long voyage when she couldn’t look at him. He’d done it right this time – he’d protected his sister, kept his family safe. He’d come home with news – and what news. Money – they’d be safe, finally. And then…_

_“Over my dead body.”_

There was – something, in the bottle. Whiskey? Hawke had a vague recollection of ordering whiskey. It was a fuzzy memory, and not a pleasant one. There wasn’t much left, whatever it was, and when it took another sip it didn’t burn, but his stomach lurched violently.

“Well, shit.”

Hawke turned slowly at the familiar voice, almost toppling off his stool. His elbow ground against the sticky surface of the bar, and as he wobbled he clung tightly to the bottle, knuckles whitening as he gripped his last remaining lifeline. His father, gone. Carver, gone. Bethany, gone. There was still his mother – still one person left to judge him for every failure, a mirror for him to see his loss and grief reflected back at him through the glaring eyes of blame.

“Down here, big guy.”

Hawke looked down, stomach lurching as the room bobbed and swayed. Varric leaned against the bar, a forced smirk plastered on his face. Hawke knew that look – from the mirror as much as from Varric. Laugh so you don’t cry. So you don’t scream. So you don’t kill everything in sight and then keep killing. Hawke snorted to himself – that last one might be just him.

“You heard?” Hawke asked. He thought it might have been closer to _yeard?_ but Varric seemed to understand, and nodded.

“Sold a few of the smaller bits and pieces,” he said, hopping up onto the next stool. Hawke followed him with his eyes and groaned, slumping sideways to lean against the comforting solid surface of the bar. It smelled sweet, and his hair stuck in a pool of something he didn’t want to identify. “Stopped by your place to drop off your share – here, by the way.” Varric shoved over a heavy purse, and Hawke snatched it and stuffed it into a pouch on his belt.

“M… fine,” said Hawke. He pushed himself upright and took another long swallow from the bottle, glaring at Varric as if daring him to comment. He didn’t, mercifully – but he held out his hand for the bottle, and Hawke reluctantly gave it up.

“You and me both.” Varric grinned, and took a gulp. “I thought I’d buy you a drink, but you beat me to it. That kind of day, huh?”

“That kind of year,” Hawke mumbled.

“Can’t argue with that.” Varric handed back the bottle – seemed to hesitate for a moment, but knew better in the end. Hawke brought it to his lips and threw his head back. His stomach flipped over, but he swallowed his vomit with the remains of the whiskey and let the empty bottle crash to the floor.

“Family, huh?” Varric waved at the barman, who ignored him pointedly. “Oh come on – I’ve got money now! Hey, hey over here!” He sighed. “One way or another, they fuck you up.”

_“It’s done. Don’t make it worse.”_

_His hand is on the knife – the knife Bethany’s noticed, but no one else has. His mother is sobbing, the Knight-Captain seems more bored than anything – but Bethany knows him, knows the furious streak he hides behind jokes. Bethany’s spent enough time with him and the grey warden healer he tries not to stare at, she’s heard the way they talk when he’s drunk enough not to care about the façade, and she saw his face when he slid his blade into Ser Wesley’s rattling chest. He let Aveline believe it was mercy, but Bethany knows what a lifetime of running and hiding and praying will do to a family._

_Over his dead body, he’d said, and Hawke’s never been the type to break a promise. But Bethany’s on the verge of tears and it’s not for herself – it’s for him. She’s cooperating to save his life – the quick to action brother who always went one step too far defending her from bullies, who had to be begged time and time again to run, not fight the Templars who drove them from their home again. She knows he won’t walk out of this one with a new scar and a story to tell his friends – he won’t walk out at all._

_He doesn’t care. His blood runs hot and his vision’s red. He doesn’t care at all._

“You gonna kill Bartrand?”

“Nice redirect.” Varric nodded approvingly, and finally got served his drink. It was just ale, and he didn’t order one for Hawke.

Hawke’s mumbled protest didn’t get him anything, and Varric whispered something to the barman Hawke was certain was an order to cut him off. Fuck Varric, then. He could give him the slip – head down to the docks and find some of his friends from his smuggling days. Someone there would give enough of a shit to share a drink – for Bethany, if nothing else. They’d liked her. Of course they’d liked her. Everyone liked her.

“I’m gonna think about it a lot,” Varric said finally. He patted Bianca – at his side as always. “Worth being sure first. You gonna attack the Gallows?”

“Huh?”

“You and Blondie – I can just see it now. Something something, the Knight-Commander’s head on a spike, wasn’t it? Don’t get me wrong, Hawke – I know you can look after yourself. But I – well, I may have come down here to babysit.”

“Where did I…” Hawke groaned, and swallowed another sticky-feeling retch. “You – get the idea I’m impulsive?”

Varric snorted and shook his head.

“Not a clue, Hawke. Not a clue.”

“Yeah.” Hawke said finally. “Varric – fuck, if I don’t keep drinking…”

“You’re gonna puke?” Varric shrugged. “I figured. Try to avoid the boots.”

“Arse.”

“Same to you. Was that – yes to the suicidal attack on the Gallows?”

“Yes. No. _Fuck._ ” He ran his hands over his face. “’S my job. My father…”

“Probably didn’t say ‘Garrett, be sure to kill yourself by the time you hit thirty.’” Varric said with a hollow laugh.

“I promised to keep her safe.” _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._ Without a constant flow of more alcohol, the pleasant warm numbness was starting to seep out of him, leaving a heavy, cold weight in his belly. Hawke dashed away tears with a growl. “The fuck else should I do?”

_“Oh, Bethany, what will happen to you?”_

_His hand stills – Bethany bites her lip – she’s waiting, he’s waiting, to see which way he’ll fall as he teeters on the edge. He knows how it’ll go – Cullen will die first, eyes glazed over, throat cut raggedly as blood coats his gleaming, hateful armour. Surprise gone, he’ll draw his sword – one more Templar, perhaps, before he’s overwhelmed – they’ll smite Bethany, she’ll not be able to help. Would they kill her? She’ll try to defend him – of course they would. It might be better than being locked up in that place but it’s not his choice to make and her eyes scream at him not to do it – not to do this to them. Not to do this to their mother._

_“Don’t worry mother,” she says. She doesn’t break eye contact, staring him down as he slowly, painfully, drops his hand from the hilt of his blade. “I’ll be fine.”_

_She won’t be. Hawke remembers Karl, he remembers the stories Anders starts to tell then stops, looking away, looking sick. She won’t be fine, but he has to be, doesn’t he? Someone has to be there for Leandra, even if it’s the son who’s failed her again and again._

_“Look after her?”_

_That seals the deal. Hawke’s hands fall to his sides, Leandra falls to her knees, and Bethany is gone._

“I’ve – never been too good at family,” Varric said slowly. He slid down off his stool and held his hand out to Hawke – half his height, probably less than half his weight, but still steady enough on his feet to help Hawke stand. Hawke wasn’t sure why he was letting himself be pulled out of his seat, but he didn’t put up a fight. “But it seems to me what you should be doing is going home, sleeping this off, and thinking about it with a clear head in the morning. Your mother is – well, I’m not one for guilt-trips, but it’s not the best night for her to be wondering where you are, you know?”

“Shit, fuck…”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“No…” Hawke pitched forward, and vomited spectacularly over Varric’s boots.

“Oh – _come on_ ,” he groaned. “Typical Hawke, really – the one thing I tell you not to do and – shit.”

Hawke slumped to his knees and brought up another stream of watery vomit. It burned, his stomach felt as if it was on fire and his throat was raw as he coughed and spluttered, eyes streaming. He didn’t know if he was crying or if it was just the result of his body trying to tear itself inside out, but the tears blurred his vision as the world spun and pitched. He was freezing, shivering, and when the final trickle of vomit was forced from between his clenched teeth, he felt the soothing, grounding pressure of Varric’s hand on his shoulder.

“Let’s get you home,” he said gruffly. “Be easier in the morning.”

It wouldn’t be, Hawke knew that much. Not that morning, and not any morning for a while. Perhaps never. But Bethany had asked something of him – the same thing his father had asked – and he would do what he could. What he had to. The only choice left to him after all of this. He would protect all that remained of his family.


End file.
